


Night Moves

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-04-15
Updated: 2000-04-15
Packaged: 2018-11-20 09:23:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11332920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Langly's prank takes a turn for the unexpected.





	Night Moves

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Night Moves by La Tigre (Lady Jaguar)

La Tigre  
Lady Jaguar's Most Unladylike Fanfic.

Night Moves  
by La Tigre (Lady Jaguar) -   
Date: 03/29/00

%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%%#%#%#%#%#%#%#  
Disclaimer: They're not mine. Chris Carter owns them.  
Rating: NC-17 for all the socially unredeeming (but fun) geeksmut and m/m bits.  
Comments appreciated. It's my first effort.  
Spoilers: none.  
Summary: Langly's prank takes a turn for the unexpected.  
Archive: Yes, for LGM (Byers/Langly) site, if wanted. Others, please ask.  
Website: http://personales.com/costarica/cartago/jaguar  
%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%#%%#%#%#%#%#%#%#

* * *

You could tell by the color of the screen gow on their faces what websites the others were crusing, Ringo Langly decided. That particularly virulet dim orange glow on Frohike's glasses meant he was cruising The Smoking Gun archives; the pale glow that lit Byers' face usually meant newsgroup diving. As he watched, Byers frowned intently, then darted his hand across the mousepad. The double click of the copy command followed. Yep. Newsgroup diving. Langly leaned back in his chair and stretched, arms high over his head, feeling the bones of his spine popping into alignment.

Over the past eight months, life had fallen into an odd rhythmn; a daily routine that usually ended up with all of them here in the "war room", net-surfing silently until sleep-deprived braincells insisted they go to bed. Alone. And, dammit, he was horny and tired of sleeping alone.

It had been months since he'd been with anyone -- hell, it had been months since he'd had a satisfying hotchat with anyone. He eyed the other two speculatively and a gleeful little ghost of an idea whispered across his mind. Perhaps it was time for a little recreation.

He danced his fingers across the keyboard, feeling that sweet-dreamy rush of endorphins as he reached out and tweaked the network. There. Just as he thought. Frohike and Byers were both sitting ducks with ICQ chat programs running, waiting for that rare moment when one of their subscribers passed along a hot tip.

/Oh baby, do I have a hot tip for you.../

He windowed open a pair of chats and routed them through two different anonymous accounts. The other two were qetting pretty good at cyber trackdowns, but they weren't in his class just yet. If they bothered to run a trace on the chat accounts he was using, they couldn't track them back to Ringo Langly. Not in a million years.

/It's good to be the Sysghod/

He selected a pair of aliases --WhiskeyGold and DjinB -- feeling the warm burn of High Mischief roaring through his veins. A good prank was almost as good a high as sex, and a good prank that involved sex was the best of all. He could feel his nipples tighten in anticipation as he composed the bait for the night's game.

<Hi there. Are you the same one who was on MidnightChatCafe last week?> he sent to both his victims. Byers blinked and sat up straighter at the interruption. Frohike didn't move.

<No. Someone else. This is a new handle for this account.> Quick and polite. That was from Byers. He flexed his fingers in anticipation. /Nothing like a good challenge,/ he thought as he poised his hands over the keyboard. /Let me light a little fire in your soul tonight, John-boy./ A new message icon flashed and he windowed the message open.

<Yes, gorgeous, it's me. Did you buy that red bustier yet?> Langly's fingers froze in mid-hover. He glanced over at the other computer. Frohike was at the larger monitor now, apparently running his tape editing software. Langly stared down at the winking message box, then doublechecked the handle and traced the ISP. The chat message came from Frohike, all right, but he would have bet his last modem that there wasn't anyone else out there called WhiskeyGold. < No. Got busy>, he managed to type back. <But I was hoping I'd catch you online this week.>

<Mmmm. I'm so glad you caught up with me, my sweet little tease. I've been thinking about you ever since that night.>

Ohshit. Dilemma. Should he cut and run and blame netburp or stick it out? This was headed into classic hotchat territory -- exactly where he wanted to go -- but he wasn't sure he wanted to find out more about the relationship between Frohike and WhiskeyGold. Another "new message" icon was winking at him, daring him to open it.

He dared.

<So what are you wearing tonight under those tight jeans, little cocksucking tease?> the message read. Apparently there were women out in cyberspace tracking down ol' Boss Gnome just for a few rounds of x-rated innuendo. Life, Langly decided, just wasn't fair.

A chair scraped harshly. Byers stood, rubbing his eyes. He mumbled an excuse about a bad headache and bed and stumbled toward the bedroom. Langly closed that chat window with a sigh. /So much for John-boy./ Frohike called a cheerful goodnight and then resumed scribbing on the drawing tablet with his lightpen.

"Hey, Langly. Where'd you stick the Photoshop download filters? I need the helpfile for BlueChannel Touchup." Bland, casual -- the tone of Boss Gnome at his most innocent.

"Uhmm... Pshop\goodies\filters, I think."

"Thanks."

The message was still on his screen; a communique from some strange space and time continuum. Langly fought off a mad uge to giggle. <Well, what would you LIKE me to wear for you tonight? Something in ... red?> he typed. WhiskeyGold could trot out a whole fantasy in lingerie -- just as soon as he could pull up the Frederick's website. Maybe something in lace; something crotchless. He chewed on the edge of his lip, sliding downwards into his chair as he slid into the half-dream of the fantasy. Maybe one of those hose and snap-on belt things. Frohicke probably went in for that old-fashioned look in his women. A warm knot of anticipation settled in his groin, and he slipped his hand inside the waistband of his jeans, easing his erection upwards, teasing it with his finger until till it lay warm and heavy against his belly.

/OhYeah. Talk dirty to me, Mel, baby./

The message box popped up.

<I'd like to see you wearing my lips around your cock, little tease.> was the reply.

He felt like he'd been goosed with a truckload of ice cubes. The world had taken a sudden turn for the Twilight Zone dimension and forgot to notify Ringo Langly of the change in plans. He slowly swiveled to stare at Frohike, but Boss Gnome was still focused on the video editor; his expression almost cherubic in its innocence. Was this some sort of mad coincidence, or had Frohike figured out who his hotchatter was?

He dithered for a moment, unsure where to go with it. Did he want anything more than a nice hotchat? He closed his eyes, comparing the fantasies... what if Mel really DID come over... what if....? The slow, warm burn in his crotch rose and he stroked the length of his penis with a discrete finger.

What if...? He slid his hand down, sliding over the precum-slicked head, down to cradle the length of his shaft in his hand, letting his eyes go out of focus, feeling the fantasy rise inside him, feeling more daring as the daydream gathered him in. What if...?

<Mmmmm. Why don't you come here and do that -- I want to feel your mouth going down on me.> he typed, one-fingered.

<Gonna send me a ticket for Chicago, little tease?>

Ah. Chicago. The real WhiskeyGold was in Chicago. Feeling safer, he slid down a bit further in his chair and slowly stroked his shaft. A little late night hotchat; no committments, no pressures. A safe and warm fantasy to curl up and dream with. His hand moved lazily over the keyboard. <i love it when you talk dirty to me.> he typed.

<I love it when you play slut. You're so brazen. I want to tease you till you squirm -- tease you till you cum, make you dream about my hands; my mouth; the way we would feel together, naked in bed.>

Half an hour ago, that would have ranked as one of the eight most unlikely scenarios of the year. But right now he would have sold his soul for that fantasy. His hand squeezed tighter on his cock.

<tell me more>

<Little tease, you never studied old Chinese pillow books. Let me tell you what they recommend.> The words scrolled down the window, weaving sweet torment. He gave himself up to the fantasy that whispered to him in black and white, telling him where to touch himself and how until he was wrapped in the dream, following the words and suggestions, and all he could manage to type was <yes>, until the only things of importance in his world was the feel of his own hand stroking, pumping his cock -- and the dance of the black-and-white letters on the screen.

<yes. oh yes.>

And then there was just the burning rush of his own climax and the world slipped away in the sweet, sweet fire and he rose and fell, panting, sprawled limp and content in his chair.

The message box was winking at him again, and he slowly moved the mouse to click on the yellow icon.

<Ah... lovely. We'll have to do that again,> the message read. <Sleep well, little tease.> An absolution for his needs; a benediction for the night. He clicked the message box closed and looked around. Frohike's station was empty, the ghost-glow of the monitor turning the edges of his empty chair to silver. The door to the older man's room was shut.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see another 'new message' icon winking at him. He tapped lightly on the mouse and the message window opened slowly, downloading a picture, showing the edge of a man's face and a view of a computer monitor -- HIS monitor, branded with the electronic time-and-date stamp of their security cameras. The damning tattletale hotchat window glowed brightly in the middle of the image, the words "i love it when you talk dirty to me" clearly visible. Below the picture were the stark and simple words: "Me, too."

Around him the white noise hum of the computers whispered secrets to the night.

-end-

(Do not meddle in the affairs of jaguars, for you are small and tasty and we are armed with good barbeque sauce recipes.)


End file.
